Something Lost
by tryingsomethingbeautiful
Summary: What led Cato and Clove into the Games together? Rated M for possible Lemons and swearing.


Blood in her hair, under her fingernails. The flash of sunlight through trees, the warmth of the hands around her neck.

"CATO!"

The scream leaves her before she wants it to; but this is the first time in Clove's life she's been frightened.

"What'd you do to that little girl? You kill her?" The boy from 11 is bellowing into Clove's face, flecks of spit peppering her skin.

Clove is gasping words before she can stop herself, acutely aware of the tightness of the hands around her throat, twisting her skin. "No!"  
The word comes out too fast, too frightened, sounding too much like a scream.

District 12 is still on the ground, blood dribbling thickly from above her eyebrow, staining her already muddy skin deep crimson. That, at least, Clove can be thankful for.

"You kill her?" The boy insists, his hand _so tight _around her throat.

"No, no," Clove finds herself whimpering, hating herself for being so ridiculous and cowardly. Where was her knife?  
"No, it wasn't us, it wasn't me, please, please, Cato!" His name is ripped from her lips, and with a jolt that sends her dizzy, she hears his tortured answering call; "Clove!" _He's coming, it's going to be alright._

The boy jerks his arm, reaching down, bringing Clove down with him like a rag doll. She feels her legs give way and closes her eyes to stop the tears spilling. She feels him straighten up, sees the rock in his hand and knows the end has come. _Cato?_

She gives one last look of all the hatred she can muster to the girl from District 12, the girl with the high score, the girl with the best gimmick for the Capitol. Is she prettier than me? Clove wonders. What has she got that I haven't, apart from a little sister back home and a stupid fake love story.

Funny how many things rush through your head when you're about to die.

Clove looks up into the face of the boy from District 11.  
He's going to kill her.

Funny that her last word will have been Cato's name, thinks Clove.  
The boy from 11 raises his arm. She feels a crunch, but no pain. For a split second she feels smug. She is powerful after all.

Then nothing.

* * *

"Again, Clove."

Clove sighs and swishes her ponytail in an exaggerated parody of boredom. Without looking, she pulls three knives from inside her jacket and flings them at the target across the room. She is rewarded with an imitation of the cannon in the Arena which signifies a dead Tribute.  
Clove allows herself a smile, revealing her pointy cat-like teeth, as she turns to the next student in line.

He's looking at her strangely. It's an older boy, Cato, Clove remembers vaguely. He eyes her critically, then looks towards the dummy she's just hit.  
His face cracks into a steely smile. "Wouldn't like to be up against you," he remarks casually.

"Good job you won't be," Clove shrugs, "I'm not volunteering this year."  
Cato begins to say something, but the trainer at the knife station steps in. "Clove, take five minutes and then we'll try some more complicated moves. Cato, move along please, you're distracting the younger students. It's your break now."

"Yes Sir," Clove and Cato say, with a respectful nod.

Clove sets off towards a small bench in the corner of the room, under which she has left her bag. Cato follows her at a distance. Out of the corner of her eye Clove notices his walk; a self-assured saunter which should look ridiculous and feigned, but actually appears intimidating.

She sits down on the bench and pretends to be surprised when Cato sits down beside her. He leans towards her, conspiritorial. "I think you should volunteer this year."

Clove laughs. "Sure," she says, "sure I will. I don't know if you've noticed Cato, but I'm only fifteen. I'm probably going in next year, year after. It'd be cool to do a Quarter Quell."  
"We all say that," Cato muses. "But you seem to actually mean it."

"'Course I mean it," Clove says, noticing how Cato's eyelashes brush the tops of his cheeks when he looks down. "It's an honour."  
"Dying for your District?" Cato probes.

This is unusual. Clove is used to boys talking to her; impressed by her knife throwing, her long legs and newly developing figure which is fast becoming one of her best assets. Her mother jokes about her seducing the Tributes to death. Clove sighs and acts annoyed, but inside is secretly thrilled. But the boys Clove is used to are blustering and huge: "I'm definitely volunteering two years early," "I'm going to kill at least ten Tributes this year," (the boy who said that managed to kill seven, then died of dehydration). The boys she is used to definitely don't question the Games, or her dedication to them.

Clove doesn't answer for a while. Cato sits back, watching her as she tucks a stray hair behind her ear. She turns to him, grinning. "You're saying that because you want me to think you're different."

"No," Cato says, a matching grin appearing on his face. "I'm saying it because I think you're different."


End file.
